


Spit Shine

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: ...written by a vegetarian, BDSM, Boot Worship, Boots - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Facials, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gentle Dom Harry Hart, Harnesses, Impact Play, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Kneeling, Leather, Leather Kink, Light BDSM, M/M, Master/Servant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Riding Crops, Smut, dirty weekends in the countryside, lockdown cockdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: "People go in for all that, don't they?"He’s working with the idea, stretching it out like dough, turning it round in his too-warm hands as Harry simply caresses his side through his neatly tucked in shirt; kisses him softly on the jaw whilst he listens."Naked tied up slave being allowed to lick their master's boots?"It’s interesting, isn’t it?'Allowed'is what really gives him away. Most people would frame it as being'made'to lick a boot.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	Spit Shine

**Author's Note:**

> Not specifically a sequel in that most of my non-AU stuff can be read as set at various points along a timeline in the same relationship, but this one makes definite references back to [ A Touch Too Much ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432597). I don't think you'll get too lost if you haven't read that first, but if any of this is your cup of tea then you might as well!
> 
> Yes, THIS is the fic I got in a massive strop about having lost several hours of work on last time I tried to post, restored to hopefully even more glory. It didn't scrape into actual Kinktober but calendars are an oppressive construct.

Spit Shine

" What the actual fuck are you wearing?"

"A suit? You've seen this one before surely."

"Not that. Them."

"Oh." Harry looks down his crossed legs and extends a foot to teasingly circle his toe in the yellowish light of the boardroom. The well-polished boot shines despite having got a respectable soaking earlier in the day. “Chelseas. Absolutely appropriate for this weather, and I was planning to walk from -”

“Yeah I ain’t bothered, really.” It’d be  _ exceptionally  _ rude if it weren’t excused by the way Eggsy is still staring at Harry’s feet, before a quick glance to check they’re alone enough for his lowered explanation, his filthy grin. Eggsy is nothing but transparent. "It’s a good look.” His voice lowers even further, from secret to confession. “Kinda wanna get down there and shine them for you."

His earnest shifting is enough to make Harry’s bloodflow rush south. Its timing could be better, considering he’s off out for lunch with Percival and then they’re in meetings - together - all afternoon, but Eggsy’s sudden fluster is too tempting to resist. 

"With your mouth?"

"Steady," he smiles, accepting a kiss as Harry stands by his side. "Actually, that's hot as fuck.” It was a shock, once, but the bent towards giddy submission - subjugation, even - is familiar now, as new as this particular admission seems to be even to himself.

"People go in for all that, don't they?" He’s working with the idea, stretching it out like dough, turning it round in his too-warm hands as Harry simply caresses his side through his neatly tucked in shirt; kisses him softly on the jaw whilst he listens. "Naked tied up slave being allowed to lick their master's boots?"

It’s interesting, isn’t it?  _ Allowed _ is what really gives him away. Most people would frame it as being  _ made  _ to lick a boot. 

Desire spiralling, Harry slides his hand up just onto Eggsy’s back, to feel the heat of him and pull him close. The surge of warmth is entirely inappropriate for a Thursday morning, but he’s got used to that since Eggsy joined - ...since Eggsy, really.

"Some do. Especially people with particular feelings about leather, and being able to please."

The young man in question pulls away laughing, squirming back in his shirt collar like he's been tickled; like a tortoise trying to retract its head. 

"Aw, fuck off, you've made me go all weird now. How much good am I gonna be today if I pop a stiffy every time you flash me a bit of ankle, like something out of Jane Austen?”

About as much use as Harry turns out to be, as it happens, with his focus constantly wandering to fantasy and returning to find Eggsy’s gaze on his feet. 

And when they get home, and Eggsy sinks to his knees to suck Harry’s cock whilst they’re still dressed, his hands delicately clinging to Harry’s still booted ankles, Harry doesn’t say a word.

There’ll be plenty of time for that.

***

The time comes sooner, keener than Harry might have imagined then, but once the ember is lit it’s simply a matter of placing orders and booking the country house which has become their unofficial bolthole by way of airbnb booking - Harry is more than vaguely considering making the owners an offer for the place - to ensure they have time and space to enjoy. Far be it from Harry not to pounce on something that might tickle Eggsy’s interest at the first glimpse of promise, and it’s not exactly the sort of scene they want interrupted, for a number of reasons. 

He’d expected much more hand wringing over the planning, much more tense psychological exploration of what they like and what it said about them and whether it was okay, and got… very little, actually. A brief stall around the veto of hoods -  _ "I ain't wearing a fucking gimp mask"  _ \- but it had turned out they were on the same page, that Eggsy enjoyed the way the extravagancies of fetish made him feel naughty. The self consciousness about this desire in particular forms a part of the appeal, and the more absurd the better, apparently: " _ You know, _ y _ ou want it more because you know it ain't right, and that's why it's sexy? Like, the more it makes you feel like a desperate fucking pervert for even considering it, the more it turns you on? _ " 

Harry’s extremely familiar with the feeling, though he’s not sure he could have put it so succinctly, nor so much that it applies in his instance.  __

He feels absolutely ridiculous in snug breeches and riding boots, like he's off on the Boxing Day Hunt, but Eggsy assured him that the look he was putting together invoked more  _ "Downton Abbey like, lord of the manor having it off with the stable boy"  _ and as such was actually very welcome, so he'd summarily shut up and gone along with it.

His choice of what to dress Eggsy in - it doesn’t consciously matter to him, because it isn't his fantasy, but it's lovely to work with Eggsy's desire to be dressed up at will - was partly motivated by the reassurance that, should it all collapse into mockery and hysterics, he'll look equally silly. In practice he looks absolutely mouthwatering. 

And as though he knows it.

It’s a neat trick to get obedience from Eggsy in three minutes flat: remain fully clothed - the better dressed the better - and strip him naked. Better yet, not entirely naked. Expose all the important bits and leave him nothing of relevance, or adorn him with just enough to remind him what it isn't covering, how on show and accessible all the bits of him you might be interested in are.

Thus Eggsy waits for Harry in the scullery-kitchen on his knees, wearing just a jockstrap and a leather harness. Not the approximation made from Harry's holsters last time they were here, but a proper harness of rigid thick black leather and shiny buckles, bought from an actual sex shop and fitted to his body then and there, over the thin material of his t-shirt amidst a room full of people.

It hadn't been embarrassing in the slightest - few things are amidst people perusing plugs, testing vibrators, trying out lubricant on the backs of their hands - but he had come out in a gorgeous blush all the same. The sales assistant had made no secrecy of their admiration, nor of feeling Eggsy up, as they’d recommended the Bulldog shape for the way the straps would bracket his thick arms and emphasise the sculpted muscle of his chest with one solid strap across its breadth, just cutting above the top curve of his pecs; a wink right out of a fifties pin up calendar, and that had been the sale made. 

It still somehow manages not to be the most enticing thing about this picture, the part that truly makes Harry’s mouth dry out.  Will there ever be a sight that goes to his cure like a depth charge quite the way this does? 

Eggsy - smirking, mouthy, ornery Eggsy - willingly on his knees. Not just willingly but desperately: eager and excited for this game that puts him in debasing servitude at Harry’s feet. Harry has commanded him, stripped and objectified him with just a well-packed bag and a set of instructions and he's sunk down, immediately and seemingly effortlessly, into this wide eyed breathless subjugation, and it seems to be exactly what he wants because there’s no fight at all, something more like pride in the lift of his harnessed chest, spread by the way his hands are folded into the small of his back, exactly as he has been taught. 

Harry swallows as subtly as he can and takes a slow breath. Eggsy has been waiting for him, for this - for longer than he intended, actually, buckles are fiddly and he doesn’t encounter them all that often - and with his sincerity comes the final puzzle-piece of inspiration. That gorgeous creature is positively  _ salivating _ at the sight of Harry like this; it’s exactly what he wanted, and it’s time to put that fantasy to work.

Harry steps slowly, purposefully across the tiles, the sharp knock of hard soles inevitably drawing Eggsy’s fidgety, overwhelmed gaze to his feet. The brand new riding boots are far too soft for any real equestrian pursuits, the sort of fashion over function nonsense Harry would never have entertained before he had… a man to entertain with them, but they look very much the part and if he isn’t mistaken, Eggsy’s jaw trembles. 

It’s showtime.

"What do you think of my boots, Eggsy?"

Eggsy straightens; puffs up, poses, even though he’s keeping his gaze low and meek, and his voice is dry already.

"They're beautiful, sir."

"You don't need to look above the top of them, do you?"

"No, sir, and thank you." So far, so lovely: when they sketched out this scene there was no hint that Eggsy wanted to feign putting up any sort of fight to his submission, but expecting that and experiencing it in the flesh - his quiet, dry voice and his obediently ducked head - are two very, very different things.

"Come closer, so that you can have a proper look."

Eggsy shuffles the last foot or so towards Harry on his knees - Harry should’ve left it far enough for him to crawl, really - and Harry turns to the side so that Eggsy can watch in rapt attention, with the hint of a smile drawing at his slack mouth, whilst Harry draws the leather tipped riding crop from the long pocket in the rear outside of the right boot and up his own calf. He’d have gone for Balmorals, if he hadn’t spotted this particular feature, which sold the boots and dictated the entire outfit to give an excuse from them but the little whining sound Eggsy makes through his nose says that was the right call.

"I am going to give you -” he lifts his chin and bends the crop between his hands, not that Eggsy should be able to see if he’s following instructions but it does feel very much the part, “- a random number of little taps with this, and you will give my boots the corresponding number of kisses, until we get to a hundred. If you falter, we start again. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.” Eggsy keeps his eyes at Harry’s toes, his hair shining, his skin gleaming on the curves of his shifting muscles as he puts his weight on his hands to walk his knees back into position. “Wait, no - per boot, or between them?”

“Total, will be fine, thank you.”

The dip of Eggsy’s back to raise his backside in the air - Harry sees now for the first time how it’s framed and bared by the bands of the jockstrap, and why those aren’t a regular, obligatory part of Eggsy’s wardrobe absolutely cannot be countenanced - is presumably the go ahead and Harry extends the crop to give him a soft swat right on the globe of his arse cheek. Eggsy makes no sound and seems to be waiting to see if another is coming before he bends forward.

Harry doesn’t know what to expect: he didn’t specify the nature of the kiss and the first one Eggsy offers is an earnest, loving smooch with the inside of his lips touching the leather and drawing across it as he closes his mouth, looking up at the end for Harry's approval and then remembering himself just in time to cast his gaze down again. It’s sinfully sexy in the echoing silence of the grand kitchen, the plush wet pink against the toe of Harry's shoe, and Harry finds himself suddenly so hard he's throbbing. 

Finished, Eggsy touches his forehead to the floor in front of Harry's feet and waits for the next strike. 

Four, gently, followed by two reverent kisses to each boot. A further fifteen to round it out and test his attention, and Eggsy seems to relish the chance to get down and spread his affection across the toes of Harry's boots, out towards the sides, over the uppers. He may be putting on a performance because he fears the crop if Harry thinks he's messing about, or it may be because there is just nothing else he’d rather be doing: that something about this specific forbidden act of servitude turns him on in practice just as much as it did in his daydreams.  Either way his virtual nudity assures that it is welcome: Eggsy is raging hard in that soft looking jockstrap, knees spread on the stone floor, back dipped beautifully to put his bare arse in the air for Harry's attention, for the touch of his crop. 

Each flick bounces on Eggsy's flesh, each savouring kiss reverberates through the fit of the boots and deep into Harry's being. He keeps the hits firm but measured, aware of the red lies and blue squares already raising even though he’s being gentle, and listens to the gravely rasp of Eggsy’s breathing and the close of his lips that denotes each kiss.

In the late twenties, something interesting happens. 

Either Eggsy makes a mistake, or he deliberately fluffs his count because he wants more, or Harry loses his grip on the total at the feeling of Eggsy's soft touches through the leather, because the number he receives is not what he thinks he gave. Fortunately Harry knows that by right of his role he fundamentally cannot be wrong: that Eggsy will not challenge him regardless of which of those is true, so it's more or less a moot point.

"Uh uh." He tsks, and tucks the leather loop of the end of the crop under Eggsy's jaw to tilt his chin up. Eggsy’s eyes are bright, his pupils wide and his expression unplaceable but impossible for Harry to misunderstand as anything but encouragement. "Back to the beginning we go."

They start over again after a cleverly random count to eleven, again after fourteen and again after that even though a dry little chuckled groan gives Eggsy away: there is just no way he's managed to count to six wrong so Harry makes the first ten when they start over really count, to make sure it's the last time.  After that exertion, he makes the rest of the difference up with quick taps and swats or they'll be here all day, plus it warms the skin nicely, drawing the blood flow to the surface so the later hits won't bruise. A few… usually about every fifth stroke… are harder. Not his full strength, obviously - Harry doesn't even want to think what a fully weighted strike with this crop could do to the supple, beautiful flesh of Eggsy’s backside - but hard enough to leave an individual mark, and for Eggsy to flinch and grunt even though he's taking his much longed-for beating so stoically. The very thought of it makes fresh shiver of lust flow down Harry's body, and it’s nothing on the sight of Eggsy’s harnessed, bowed, sweating back: -

_ My boy. An actual bloody pervert.  _

He has to stop for a pause to admire him, to catch his breath. To adjust his erection with the heel of his hand before the sight of Eggsy's listlessly shifting backside, the leather-framed muscles of his back, his undaunted arousal, do Harry in completely. 

“How many do you make that?”

"Sixty...seven?"

"Are you sure?"

“Yes?" The tip of the crop scrapes over a fresh blue bruise and makes him shudder, and a spot of saliva lands on the floor when he swallows and clears his throat. The prospect of starting over again, so enticing fifty or so crop strokes ago, is now daunting and far too much. "No? Fuck, I dunno. Sir. _ Master. _ ”

_ Oh, well _ . Well. It’s unexpectedly, entirely gorgeous but sure sign he’s had enough. 

“Final answer, Eggsy.”

“Yes sir. Sixty seven.”

“Well done.”

It could've been out by twenty and Harry would have let him off. 

Harry finishes the count out as quickly and as evenly as he can without cheating Eggsy out of the experience, or muddling up his counting. His kisses are no longer as distinct: more a loving, snogging press bringing a moist shine to the leather of the boots and Harry wouldn't have a clue how to break it down into a count and no longer cares. Harry keeps the crop smacks light and bouncing until the final ten, which he gives Eggsy a long moment of breathless, apparently happy worship on his boots to compose himself for.

Five clean strikes on each arse cheek, with enough of the crop on enough of Eggsy's backside to leave angry stripes. Eggsy jerks and whimpers into them but it's worth it to leave him on a high, to bring him just past that feeling that he could have taken more, could have gone further. The last two smacks are hard enough to properly whistle through the air on their way down; for the sound to make Eggsy tense up and curl his toes as he braces for the impact. Hard enough to really hurt, and it's such an obvious crescendo that he falls onto his elbows and back to kissing Harry's boots as soon as the last lands. 

"Very, very good." Truly, Harry isn't sure this will ever cease to amaze him. He's intimately familiar with how thrilling power exchange can be but on Eggsy, of all people… it's intoxicating, apparently for both of them, the gifting over of that autonomy he normally hoards so carefully. Harry cannot wait to reward him. "Kneel up. Eyes down."

Eggsy straightens his back, thrusts his shining chest out, and the bulge making an actual tent shape in the jock strap should be comical but the noticeable wet patch makes Harry's stomach jump like he’s gone over a summit; makes his nerve endings jolt with arousal. Eggsy’s eyes are wild and he keeps them carefully on the floor somewhere just in front of him, and Harry suspects it’s the unavoidable view of his own rigid, gleaming body so objectified that’s scorching his cheeks that lovely pink. And rightly so. 

Modesty would be a waste on Eggsy .

Harry relies upon Eggsy to keep his eyes averted as instructed whilst he hooks out the wooden milk crate from under the counter. He spotted it last time they were here; gathered from dusty shadows of footprints that someone shorter has used it to reach cupboards, and it should be just high enough for this, just study enough to take his weight. He plants it in front of Eggsy and steps up, facing away from him, vaguely inspecting the herb rack mounted on the opposite wall for a moment before sharply bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. 

“Come closer.” He hears Eggsy shuffle forwards, feels his hands on the box and tentatively on the outside of Harry’s boots to steady himself, to draw them together, and doesn’t challenge it, because it doesn’t feel deliberate. "Close as you can. Then you're going to take those ridiculous pants aside, and see if you can get closer still."

There’s a pause, and then the unchecked little gasp as Eggsy realises what he is being told to do. What he is being allowed to do. 

There’s some more shifting and Eggsy comes to rest his face on Harry's arse, his weight against he back of his thighs enough to make Harry adjust his balance on the crate. It would lend more interesting possibilities were Harry not still fully clothed but as it is it's just suitably demeaning and gives Harry the best possible view of Eggsy's cock when it pushes through the gap between his boots - dark pink and shining - and stills there, protruding from between Harry's calves. 

Harry shifts his weight from side to side, as though he is adjusting, so that the inner panels of the boots slide against Eggsy's prick and Eggsy makes the same brave, surprised huff he makes for getting bullets removed from his body. All that torturous twisting and buckling was well worth it: they could never have done this if the boots had zips.

They adjust so that Eggsy slots snug, gorgeously in the curve between ankles and calves, in the soft diamond void made of the two when Harry puts his feet neatly together - _a German aristocrat's greeting, indeed_. The gap is narrow enough to squeeze at him, to rub, to chafe if Harry weren’t on hand to lean down and pump a couple of long globs of Liquid Silk over the crown of Eggsy's cock. 

That's the boots done for, presumably, unless the lube is somehow compatible with the leather and just works into a patina. He could have checked, if he cared but these are very much for show and only ever going to come out in private… especially if Eggsy is going to respond to them quite so deliciously. He's breathless, trembling, evidently fighting his urge to rut and just about succeeding for the moment, which is entirely contrary to the point. 

"Do you want to fuck them, Eggsy?"

It feels almost silly to ask but he can feel the heat of Eggsy’s reverent hands on the outsides of his shins and there is nothing in any way funny, nothing anything but enthralling, about how much he wants this. Eggsy's too far gone to even know what shape to make his answer for the best result, and the first response Harry gets is an insensible string of letters on a whine. 

"Try again."

" _Please._ Fuck, sir, please?"

That's good enough. He'd love to make him spell it out but it doesn't sound as though he's actually be able to, which is just as pretty.

"Go on, then. You've been good."

Eggsy whimpers as he makes that first delicate thrust. 

It’s bordering on the most obscene thing they've ever done, or the most obscure: the furthest Eggsy has let Harry put him from anything conventionally described as sex in the name of getting his rocks off but he is, and beautifully. Harry angles his feet to give Eggsy a tight enough channel to push into without risk of squashing him and he starts to move almost immediately, tiny little kicks of his hips like it might even be involuntary, gentle but eager.

The plan is, loosely, to lean forward and give Eggsy a hand: for Harry to curl his palm for Eggsy to fuck into when he pushes between the boots, or work the head of his prick with its shaft held gently between them - whatever seems as though it will work for him, Harry's practiced enough at getting Eggsy off to presume he can do it before the bend puts his back out - but he doesn't get a chance.  A few shaky rubs back and forth, a hitch, a whimper, a bitten off whine of "oh,  _ shit _ " and then the heavy splot of come, clearing the crate and dripping onto the floor, spattering on the toes of Harry's boots. 

Delight bubbles up like electric butterflies, and much as he tries Harry can't get all of the disbelief - the wonder - out of his voice .

"Did you  _ ask? _ "

"I'm sorry! Sir! I didn't know… I couldn't help it, I just-"

_ Just came from rutting against a pair of leather boots, with no other input, unless you count previously having been bound up and spanked with a riding crop.  _ It’s so truly incredible, so painfully enticing that Harry himself struggles to get words out, let alone make them commanding, but he tries.

"Come round and clean it up, then."

"Yes sir."

Harry steps off the crate and Eggsy drops into a lovely grovel, low on his elbows, eyes closed and mouth open as he eagerly licks his come from the toes and bridges of Harry's boots. Harry shuts his eyes. He can actually feel it when Eggsy licks over the stitching, when he sucks at the material; Eggsy isn't so enamored of the taste of his own come. This is his desperation to please, his gratitude for the privilege, still earnest after orgasm, the spell apparently unbroken. 

The rasp of his mouth on the leather travels all the way up Harry's legs; the sight of the point of his tongue lapping what he can get into his mouth, link and open, straight to Harry's cock. 

"Here." Harry clicks his fingers and manages to point with one hand whilst he opens his fly with the other. "Ah ah, I didn't say you could suck it. Mouth open."

Eggsy obediently opens his mouth so far it almost makes his eyes roll; his tongue stuck out and forward like he's showing Harry he isn't hiding anything; that he’s swallowed down all his own come like a good boy…

_ "Good boy _ ," comes out of Harry's mouth before he can stop it and Eggsy doesn't seem to mind. His hand is quick on his cock, warm enough and wet enough, urgent with the inspiration of Eggsy's reddened arse, his hard harnessed body, his greedy mouth. He’s always impossibly gorgeous but there’s something about the shamelessness with which he’s started bowing to the more pronounced kinks that turns Harry’s blood to easy coursing fire. 

T he peak is like a self fulfilling prophecy: he knows exactly how Eggsy will look with come slashed across the heat of his cheeks, pooling on his tongue and dripping off his pink lips and the thought tips him over in moments, spilling in almost the exact pattern he visualized, with his aim squarely on the back of Eggsy’s throat.

"Ahh?" Is all Eggsy can manage of a question either his mouth held open in pose. It takes Harry a moment to compose himself enough to even process it.

“Yes. Yes, of course you can swallow it. Christ.”

"Thank you, sir."

Harry has to physically shake his head before he can trust himself to speak again, can muster words that are not the delirious  _ for fuck's sake, you can stop now _ " that wants to come out of his mouth. Eggsy is apparently still very much in role and they both need rest, recuperation that will not and must not happen on a freezing concrete floor. 

_Debrief,_ barks the ingrained instinct in the back of Harry’s head. _Debrief_ _whilst cuddling._

And so he manages to yank Eggsy -as gently as he can manage, but that’s not paramount - to his feet and stumble them, as ridiculously semi-clothed as they are, through a couple of doors so that Harry can collapse into a comfortable chair and pull Eggsy’s nearly naked form down into his lap. Having him in the harness is markedly, unquestionably more obscene than having him fully nude would be, though Harry notes the absence of the jock strap entirely. He'll have to have a scout about for it later, because it really is quite the look on Eggsy but probably wouldn't be the most welcome surprise if one was rummaging under the counters looking for a colander.

"What you sniggering at?"

Harry can't quite parse a sensible response just yet, so he simply kisses Eggsy's temple, and given how absurd the whole scenario is in early-evening hindsight, seems happy with that answer.

"Sorry I…" Eggsy himself seems to sober, to come back to the room a few moments later, mid way through his own absent laugh with Harry dazedly tracing his fingers over the stitching on the leather above his heart. " _ Am  _ I sorry I came on your shoes, or is that exactly what you wanted?"

"Well, I didn't dare presume you'd be able to but it was a very nice surprise. I'll be seeing that for a while."

It makes Eggsy shiver, now and then, the touch of fingertips through still-stiff leather but he’s molten, smiling satiated in the fullest way by understanding how truly Harry enjoys indulging him and it is truly, truly incredible that they’ve managed to have sex quite this mind blowing without actually ever touching each other.

They remain in chuckling, twitching, warm silence until an ascending gurgle from somewhere around Eggsy’s midsection interjects. 

“Well, quite.” Harry addresses Eggsy’s belly: curled as he is it’s soft but still manages to carry the promise of muscle, the confounding juxtaposition of someone who eats the way Eggsy does being in quite such spectacular shape. It must be his age. “And does your appetite have anything further to comment?” 

“It will do if I don’t get something down me. They got a Breville in the kitchen. I can knock us up a couple of cheese toasties?”

“Marvelous.” Particularly if, as Harry intuits, they’ll be eaten in bed. He’s shattered, with a tweak in his shoulder that presumably pairs with a bruise on Eggsy's backside. “I’ll get out of all of this, grab a quick shower. Do you want a hand with your, ah-?" The word  _ harness  _ in this context makes his mouth dry out, which is interesting. 

"Oh, this?" Eggsy grins and tucks his thumb into the D ring; gives it a little tug away from his body, towards Harry as though some force is pulling him by it. He looks up into Harry's eyes. His are still dark and warm with sex but regaining their clarity now, that twinkle of cheek that shines all the brighter when he notices how Harry's responding, even now. "Nah, this is staying on until you use it properly." 

Given the hour, and how transparently wrung out they both are from the day's escapades already, that may well be until tomorrow, b ut Eggsy looks like he well knows that and they've nowhere else to be. 

Perhaps literally nowhere else, depending on how Eggsy feels about having that harness leashed to something.

There'll be plenty of time for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please do let me know if you enjoyed it, It will help to soothe me that the extra effort paid off.  
> I am endeavoring to respond to all my comments eventually; I also love to make new friends on [twitter ](https://www.twitter.com/agentsnakebite) and [ tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/randomactsofviolence) !


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